False 9
"This is it."
The lodging in Amsterdam.
In the dim room, the only light painting Gang-cheol's face was the cool blue glow spilling from the tablet screen.
On that screen, the legendary El Clásico of May 2, 2009, at the Santiago Bernabéu was playing.
Real Madrid 2 : 6 Barcelona
One of the most shocking scorelines in football history.
And at its heart stood a man who occupied the striker's position yet was no ordinary striker—Lionel Messi.
"Hyung, rewind it. Back a minute thirty."
"Dude, this is the fiftieth time already. You're gonna burn a hole through the tablet."
Hyung Hoseok yawned and tapped the screen.
Gang-cheol's eyes were bloodshot, yet his pupils burned with fierce clarity.
The Messi on the screen did not sprint. He prowled the narrow seam between Real Madrid's defensive line and midfield, drifting like a shadow.
Real's center-backs looked lost. The striker they were supposed to mark kept dropping deep, leaving them torn between chasing and holding their ground.
"That's it. Movement that forces the defender to choose."
Gang-cheol slapped his knee.
"If they step up, the space behind them gets shredded. If they stay, they're outnumbered in midfield. A deadly dilemma."
The so-called False 9, or zero-top tactic.
A radical role: standing in the classic striker's (number 9) spot, yet dropping deep like a midfielder to shatter the opponent's defensive structure.
Even without overwhelming physique, overwhelming football intelligence alone could toy with giants. The one key that fit his current body perfectly.
💡 Tactical Comprehension Surging!
- New Tactical Code Discovered: 'False 9'
- Acquisition Condition: In a real match, reverse the opponent defender's psychology to create space. (0/1)
"Hyung. I'm going to the training ground starting tomorrow."
Gang-cheol shot to his feet. His knee throbbed, but the pain no longer frightened him.
"What? Your knee isn't fully healed. The doctor said rest another week—"
"No. No time to rest. If I've understood it with my head, I have to prove it with my body."
He shut off the tablet and left the room.
A thirty-five-year-old veteran's soul was issuing orders to a thirteen-year-old body.
From now on, we no longer fight.
We deceive.
The next morning. Ajax training ground, De Toekomst.
"You want to return?"
Coach Frank de Boer stood with arms crossed, looking down at Gang-cheol. His gaze was as sharp as ever.
"Yes. My leg still hurts, but I can run."
"I told you. Don't even think about coming back until you satisfy my eyes. Have you finished the fundamentals training?"
"No. But I've found the 'answer' you spoke of, Coach."
At Gang-cheol's confident reply, Frank's eyebrow twitched.
"An answer, is it... Better not be just pretty words."
"I'll show you. Give me just ten minutes in the practice match."
Frank fell silent for a moment, then glanced at the other coaches on the bench.
"Fine. Slot into the first-team (starting side) striker position. The opposition is the defensive unit with Van Dijk."
The worst possible conditions.
A thirteen-year-old still nursing an injury lining up as the lone striker against the most physical, most brutal defenders in the U-17 squad? It was practically suicide.
"Hey, Ma! You okay?"
Winger Ryan, assigned to the same side, asked with concern.
Gang-cheol tightened his laces and flashed a grin.
"Ryan. Just trust me. Today all you have to do is smell the goal."
"What?"
"I'll set the table. You just put the spoon in."
Peeeeep—!
The practice-match whistle blew.
Early on, Gang-cheol's movement was bizarre.
He did not surge forward. Instead he drifted all the way back near the halfway line among the midfielders, strolling like a neighborhood uncle out for a walk.
"What the hell? Why isn't he pushing up?"
Opposition center-back Van Dijk barked in irritation.
At 192 cm of pure bulk, he was itching for a physical duel with Gang-cheol. But the kid refused to engage, leaving him punching air.
Don't come... don't come...
Gang-cheol muttered the spell under his breath while watching Van Dijk from the corner of his eye.
Van Dijk held his position—classic zonal defending.
Good. He's not following.
Plan A, then.
Gang-cheol gestured for the ball from midfield. He received it completely unchallenged. Distance to Van Dijk: roughly ten meters.
He turned calmly, facing forward.
"Close him! He's lining up a long shot!"
The moment Gang-cheol received and pivoted, Van Dijk exploded out of the line.
That instant.
"Too late."
Gang-cheol's toe flicked under the ball—not a shot.
A lofted through-ball into the vast space Van Dijk had just vacated.
"Ryan!"
"Okay!"
Already reading Gang-cheol's eyes, Ryan sliced through like a bullet. The offside trap was shattered.
One-on-one with the keeper.
Ryan casually slotted it into the far corner.
Swish!
"Wow! Maestro!"
Ryan flashed a thumbs-up.
Gang-cheol had recorded the assist without breaking a sweat.
Van Dijk's face flushed crimson with humiliation—mocked by a thirteen-year-old brat.
"Hey! Press him! Drop and take him!"
Van Dijk roared at his fellow defenders. Poison filled his eyes. Next time he would not let the kid breathe.
Took the bait.
Gang-cheol curled the corner of his mouth.
The hunter had set the trap, and the boar was starting to rage.
Play resumed.
Gang-cheol again drifted slyly toward the midfield line.
This time was different.
The moment he moved, Van Dijk charged after him, breathing hard.
"Not a chance, you little rat!"
Van Dijk crashed into him from behind.
192 cm versus 178 cm. Twenty kilos of weight difference.
A collision would end it. Bones could break.
But Gang-cheol had been waiting.
The enormous shadow at his back. The vibration of a truck barreling in.
Spatial Perception (A) + 360-Degree Vision
Now.
Pretending to receive the ball, Gang-cheol twisted his body the instant before it touched his foot—letting it run past him instead of trapping it.
"Wha—?"
Van Dijk, charging full speed for a body check, sliced empty air and lost his balance.
Gang-cheol glided past his ribs as smoothly as a matador letting an enraged bull thunder by.
The ball he had released rolled straight to the oncoming attacking midfielder, Tomas.
No one stood in front of Tomas. Van Dijk had abandoned his post to hunt Gang-cheol.
"We're through!"
Tomas drove forward on a solo dribble. The remaining defenders swarmed him.
The defensive line collapsed.
Gang-cheol did not sprint.
He had no need.
He simply walked into the space the defenders had abandoned—the heart of the penalty box, the so-called Zone 14.
After drawing the defenders, Tomas cut the ball back.
It rolled perfectly onto Gang-cheol's foot.
No one around him.
Even the goalkeeper had been pulled toward Tomas.
Gang-cheol gently side-footed the ball into the empty net.
Tap.
Swish.
Silence.
Every player on the training pitch stood frozen.
It had looked far too easy.
No sweat-soaked physical battles. No dazzling individual skill.
Just walking, releasing, and finishing.
Yet the high-level psychological warfare and spatial understanding packed into that simplicity sent chills down the spine.
"......"
Coach Frank closed the tactical notebook in his hand. A deep smile curved his lips.
"That kid's a monster."
He whispered to the U-17 manager beside him.
"Rewrite the report. Delete 'physical weakness present' and write 'tactically complete.' That boy no longer needs to fight with his body."
On the pitch, Gang-cheol walked up to the dazed Van Dijk and tapped his shoulder.
"Hyung. Ease up a little. Football isn't wrestling."
"Y-you..."
Van Dijk tried to retort, then shut his mouth. Total defeat. Not in strength—he had been thoroughly toyed with in a battle of minds.
Gang-cheol looked up at the sky.
Amsterdam's sky was high and blue.
The pain in his knee? He no longer felt it.
He now carried a new weapon that transcended the limits of physique.
This was no mere change of position.
It was a thirteen-year-old boy's declaration of war—that he would stand at the summit of European football, ruled by the logic of power, through pure intelligence.
Just then, a commotion rose from the entrance of the training ground.
A club staff member came sprinting over, face ashen.
"Coach! We've got a huge problem!"
"What is it? Stop panicking."
"It's... the opponent for this weekend's cup has changed!"
"Changed? The bracket's already out. What are you talking about?"
The staffer held out a tablet with trembling hands.
"PSV Eindhoven... withdrew. Food poisoning in the squad or something... So the standby invitation team is coming in..."
Coach Frank checked the screen and froze solid.
Gang-cheol felt an instinctive chill.
"Who is it?"
Gang-cheol asked.
Frank slowly turned his head to look at him. His eyes were complicated.
"Spain."
"What?"
"FC Barcelona."
Gang-cheol's heart plummeted.
Barcelona.
The team that had been an insurmountable wall in his previous life.
And the birthplace of the original False 9 he had just imitated—Lionel Messi. (Of course Messi was with the first team, but their entire youth system was filled with Messi's clones.)
"The kids from La Masia are coming."
It felt like a cruel joke of fate.
The moment he equipped the False 9, he would face the real deal.
Gang-cheol clenched his fist.
Fear? No.
The corner of his mouth rose of its own accord.
Let them come.
This was no mere test stage.
It was the perfect chance to confirm whether the god's technique he had stolen would work even against the original.
"This is going to be fun. A whole lot of fun."
Blue flames burned in Gang-cheol's eyes.